[center][h1]ℜ𝔢𝔫𝔞𝔲𝔩𝔱 𝔅𝔢𝔞𝔲𝔪𝔬𝔫𝔱[/h1][/center]
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[i]'By the gods, I'm getting too old for this...'[/i] Renault's breathing was ragged and heavy as he - with certain effort - freed his blade from the dead carcass of the rat. Like ritual, he used the edge of his cloak to wipe away the blood and any other fluids that stained his blade. He would not have dared such a thing with the pristine white cloak he possessed in the Order. But the heavy cloak he wore now was of little consequence - no station attached to it. It kept him warm during cold nights and provided sanctuary in a thunderstorm. 

For now, the party had stopped, and while Renault was thankful for the momentary rest, he was too on-edge to truly enjoy the reprieve. They were in what was presumably the heart of hostile territory. More rats were likely on their way, bigger and in greater numbers. They had weathered several waves now, yes, but how many more could they endure? Renault feared that age and tiredness were beginning to creep on him. His grip on his blade was looser, his swings sluggish and more predictable. Fatigue was the silent killer of many knights, forced to push the limits of their endurance until they nearly passed out from exhausted.

In that moment, Gorosk inquired about the strange, almost unsettling box that sat untouched and unharmed in the center of the chamber. Without the immediate threat of combat, the eeriness of the environment had settled in fully. A fearful uncertainty, so to speak. What was in this box? Why is it sitting here of all places? Why had the rats not broken through it?

"I don't trust it....stay on your guard." Renault warned, letting his sword fall at his side while being kept securely in his grasp.